


Raise, Call, or Fold

by callmelyss



Series: The Stranger That You Keep [3]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Cadet Hux, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, Hux POV, Hux's Sad Childhood, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Side AU, M/M, Pre-Slash, Scarification, Sharing a Bed, Trauma, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: It’s for the best, really, that he’s leaving tomorrow, that they’re on the last leg of their journey to Nori Station. Han will pick up his co-pilot, Ben’s Wookiee uncle. They’ll restock supplies and fuel. And Armitage will go on his way, forty credits in his pocket, more than enough for a steerage ticket on a passenger ship. Or maybe he’ll find work.—Armitage prepares to depart theFalcon. Nothing goes according to plan.





	Raise, Call, or Fold

**Author's Note:**

> The next installment of the stowaway 'verse.
> 
> Armitage's backstory is, as ever, difficult and there's a lot of it here, so please mind the warnings about violence and abuse. Passing mention of relationships of convenience among the cadets, too. None of that in-scene or explicitly on the page.

There’s a certain quality of sound to a ship moving through hyperspace, Armitage knows. A just noticeable hum underlying the workings of the machine, the engines, the instrumentation. A series of minute shifts and shudders that goes mostly unnoticed and unmarked. 

He’s best accustomed to these noises, having been surrounded by them for as long as he can remember. Their absence unsettles him more than their presence, although they differ from ship to ship. The Imperial craft where he's lived most of his life until recently had deeper voices, almost subsonic; the sound of their innermost operations thrummed deep in his bones, his teeth, his eardrums. He still misses them sometimes, finds himself listening for a groan or rumble that isn’t there.

The _Millennium Falcon_  possesses her own unique resonances, of course. Her hyperdrive has a  _creak_ to it that worried him at first; he has since confirmed with the tripartite computer that there’s nothing amiss with it. It’s simply a quirk, another mark of idiosyncrasy for a ship that’s already highly idiosyncratic, customized and un-customized and re-customized throughout her long life. Armitage has seen the traces of the corrected changes, from the walls to the guts of her control panel, the thumbprints of other owners and Han Solo himself pressed into the durasteel and the wiring. 

He hasn’t told Ben that he knows now what this ship is and what it represents, as well as who his father is: a war hero according to the current popular narrative, a traitor of the highest order according to people like his own father. But it doesn’t matter what the Commandant would think of this ship or him being here or the company he’s keeping. It stopped mattering when Armitage knocked out one of his officers and stole a shuttle and fled everything he’d ever known.

Or else it stopped mattering before that, when he—

The point is it doesn’t matter. 

Nonetheless, he hasn’t mentioned it to Ben or Han, as Captain Solo insists on being called, that he knows what their surname means and who they are. Not out of any disapproval or dislike on his part. He hasn’t decided what he thinks about recent Galactic history, and there’s the perfect luxury, too, of not having to think _anything_ about it. Perhaps he never will, can embrace this ambivalence instead, and only worry about the next ship, the next step away from the Commandant and everything he built. As he chooses.

No, he doesn’t care, so much, about who the Solos are or what this ship is (he _likes_ the ship, whatever its role in the destruction of the Death Stars). But it’s safer, he’s decided, if they don’t know who _he_ is, his father’s name, where he comes from, or what he’s done. At best there would be questions. At worst—well, he’s just escaped one prison, after a fashion. He’s not eager to end up in another. 

 _Ben wouldn’t do that_ , some small, frail, trusting voice insists. But he won’t risk it. Can’t.

It’s for the best, really, that he’s leaving tomorrow, that they’re on the last leg of their journey to Nori Station. Han will pick up his co-pilot, Ben’s Wookiee uncle. They’ll restock supplies and fuel. And Armitage will go on his way, forty credits in his pocket, more than enough for a steerage ticket on a passenger ship. Or maybe he’ll find work. Han has said he knows a few people who could use the help, who work mostly in the mid-Rim and the Core, far away from the Unknown Regions. He’s proven, these past weeks, that he’s good with a spanner. Convinced the computer to make a hard jump during an unpleasant encounter with someone or something called Kanjiklub earlier.

 _That_ had made Ben unhappy; his father’s continuing criminal entanglements bother him. They had a long, strained conversation about it in the cockpit after dinner. Mostly hissed, inaudible. Some shouting. Armitage had retreated to his bunk early, reading on the battered datapad Han loaned him instead of playing Dejarik or watching a holofilm with Ben, as has become a near-daily habit.

Strange to already have a routine, even one as quiet, as simple, as that. Playing games. Doing dishes. Tinkering with spare parts. Although, perhaps it’s only replacing the one he left, jumping awake at 0500 and perfectly making his bed, marching to the mess with the others, shoveling what food he could into his mouth before morning drills, then morning lessons, then lunch, then, then, then.

The holonet access on the _Falcon_ has been spotty at best; fortunately, the device is loaded with a decently sized library, mostly mechanical manuals, but he finds those interesting enough and managed to get lost in one for a few hours. He yawns now, realizes he’s been looking at the same schematic of an old C-ROC _Gozanti_ class cruiser’s engine core for the past ten minutes, and shuts off the ‘pad, sending his bunk into near darkness. 

It’s not a bad space, considering. Han scrounged up a set of blackout curtains, which muffle both sound and light better than he would have thought. _Privacy_ remains somewhat odd to him, although not uncomfortable. He likes having a ‘fresher door to close in particular; there’s nothing to miss about communal showers and all their attendant unpleasant surprises. It appeals to him, too, to have a compartment that’s _his_ , with his bed and his few belongings, even if only temporarily. 

But he can’t get used to sleeping alone.

Not, he thinks somewhat ruefully, that he’s tried especially hard. Even now, there’s the itch to slink out of his bunk and slip down the corridor to Ben’s bed, as he has every other night the past two weeks. 

He could. He wants to. And it is, after all, the last time.

If there’s harm in it, it’s worth it.

Armitage swings his legs out of the bunk and climbs down; the lounge is dark. His pulse accelerates, blood throbbing in his ears. Another souvenir from his time at the Academy. Something about this feels _illicit_ , even though Han has done little more than tease them about it. Not like the dormitory, not rough hands jerking him out of a warm cot where he’d lingered too long, not the sting of a switch on his legs, his back. It hadn’t stopped him or any of them—they’d simply learned to be faster, cleverer, the whispered warnings rolling through the bunks every morning like a tide. 

He’s wearing Ben’s shirt, the one he lent him that first night; he’s taken to sleeping in it, although it doesn’t fit. He might bring it with him when he goes. Likes the worn feel of it and the faint smells of what he thinks must be sunshine and fresh air soaked into the fabric. How Ben smells, somehow, even after weeks on a starship. 

He’s lying on his side when Armitage creeps into the room, back to the door. Something trusting even in that. And he’s left space, as he always does, just enough for him to crawl under the blanket behind him and press up against his back, tucking his knees in the crooks of Ben’s, curling one arm around his waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Half-awake.

“Hey,” Armitage whispers back. He shivers when Ben’s long fingers catch his, bring them up to his lips for a kiss. Featherlight. There’s nothing demanding about it, nothing that expects reciprocation or anything, really, in return, as is the case with all of Ben’s casual gestures. Squeezing a shoulder or arm. Knocking his elbow against Armitage’s. Gentle. Friendly. _Easy_. It doesn't seem to matter that he rarely touches him back, outside of the bunk.

It had never been like that in the dormitory—it couldn’t be—and the arrangements were completely mercenary, even when they were small, with notorious bedwetters and night-biters left to suffer on their own. As he and his classmates got older, there were other expectations, too, certain exchanges for a warm bed to share. Rajun had been one of the few who didn’t ask much of him in return, just a kiss here and there and the occasional fondling; they hadn't done anything more. 

He had been still, so still, the last time Armitage had seen him, his face gray. The chirp of the medical droids. 

He rests his cheek between Ben’s shoulder blades, listening to his heart beat, letting it lull him. No, it had never been like this at the Academy, not really. No one had ever shared food with him before, had dumped five or six meals in front of him like it was nothing and told him to help himself. No one had ever grabbed his arm while he stammered his way through a half-confession of what had happened and told him it was all right. 

No one had ever held him through a nightmare.

He’d gotten kicked out of more than a few beds for that, in fact, had skulked back to his own cot and shivered through the night afterward. The blankets were never heavy enough; the ships constantly ran cold. And there were always more bad dreams.

Are. That hasn’t changed just yet.

Armitage doesn’t know which one he’s having when he startles awake, mouth dry, pulse tripping. He thinks he remembers half of the morning declarations running through it: _We will defend the glory of the new Empire, which will rise again from the ashes of the shameful New Republican regime…_

Rajun had been there, too. Blood on the floor. 

He’s aware of Ben’s presence, as he had been the first night aboard the _Falcon_ , when he had been exhausted from days of hiding in smuggling compartments and half-certain he was going to get spaced come morning. Distrustful, too, of the kindness Ben showed him, even as he accepted it, _wanted_ it. Armitage feels now, as he did then, warmth on his face and a mild breeze and grass under his bare feet. None of these sensations, he knows, belong to him or his memories; he doubts, even, that he could imagine them without help. Therefore, they must be from Ben, that odd power he has, the stuff of fairy tales or ghost stories, depending who you asked. Another kindness.

He sinks back down into sleep, the last of his other dream fading, _gray_ and the drumbeat of boots and his peers shouting. Goading him. The knife in his hand, blood running hot over his knuckles. Rajun lying there. He feels Ben tug him closer. Sunshine. Fresh air. Buzzing insects. Green and growing things.

 

* * *

 

He wakes a second time when he hears the switch in the _Falcon_ ’s engines; he doesn’t need to hear the proximity alert to know that they’ve dropped out of hyperspace. They’ll be docking at Nori Station soon, and he’ll depart and try to figure out what’s next. No reason to linger here.

Ben shifts next to him, his breathing changing, too, and when Armitage opens his eyes, he finds him looking at him. He smiles, face still blurry with sleep, eyes soft. “Mornin’ starshine,” he says.

“Hi,” Armitage replies. 

“You, um. You were talking in your sleep again.” This is how he refers to the nightmares. It’s also how he explains why they wake up this way, rearranged, Ben’s arms around him, holding him. As though that’s something he needs to justify. As though Armitage might object.

“Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine. Barely woke me.” Ben turns his head to yawn, sparing him a blast of morning breath. After, he reaches over—those scant inches, the two of them so close this way—to stroke Armitage’s cheek. “Only, are you okay?”

“I am, thank you.” It would be easy, at this distance, to cross the gap and press his lips against Ben’s. He knows, too, that it would be welcome. He’s seen the way Ben looks at him sometimes, the wanting there. Has felt the evidence of it a few times here in the bunk, too, nudging him in the hip or the back, although that doesn’t bother him. He’s been affected that way himself. Slipped out to deal with it in the ‘fresher. It’s mostly proximity and body heat, in his experience, none of that new, although he thinks this might be the first time he wouldn’t mind. Being kissed, that is. But Ben’s been hesitant, and Armitage—

Is leaving, yes. Best if they don’t.

“Good,” Ben says. “That’s good.” He bumps their noses together. His thumb rests just under Armitage’s eye. He looks like he might say something else, but then Han is banging on the wall by the door. 

“Nori Station in fifteen. Up and at ‘em, kids,” he calls, not bothering to stick his head in the room.

“Okay, okay, we’re awake,” Ben calls back.

There’s no time to ask what he was going to say while they shuffle through their morning routine, taking turns in the sonic and cleaning their teeth. Yanking on clothing and cramming breakfast in their mouths. Just ration bars and caf today, although it’s more than enough for Armitage, especially when no one reprimands him for taking two or putting extra milk in his cup. 

No time either, while they guide the _Falcon_ onto the landing pad, Han allowing the two of them to do most of the piloting. He pats them both on the back when the ship shudders to a stop. 

They’re unloading cargo, still no chance to talk, when Armitage hears a bellow behind him. He tenses, ready to bolt, and even more so when he sees over seven feet of brown fur stalking towards him. He reaches for a blaster that isn’t there, then throws up his hands in a futile protective gesture, but the assailant barrels past him and toward Ben, sweeping him up in a—

In a _hug_. Ben throws his arms around as much of them as he can grab, hugging back. Laughs when the Wookiee, yes, that must be a Wookiee, the famous Uncle Chewie, lifts him off his feet and spins him around, wailing something unintelligible in Shyriiwook all the while. To Armitage’s surprise, Ben enthusiastically growls something back in that same language, for all that it sounds like loud gargling, the beginning of a lengthy exchange between the two.

He stands and watches, unsure of what’s being said.

“Oh hey!” Ben says, catching sight of him. He drags the Wookiee over by one hand and grabs one of Armitage’s with the other. “Uncle Chewie, this is Armitage. He’s been, uh. Helping Dad with the Falcon. While you were away.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr., er, Chewie,” he tries. He finds himself under the scrutiny of a pair of dark eyes. It’s unusual to have to tilt his head this far back to look at anyone, especially since his last growth spurt. And he doesn’t have to speak Shyriiwook to recognize the very clear skepticism expressed in the Wookiee’s response.

“No, he’s been doing a great job, I promise. Ask Dad,” Ben assures him.

“He has at that,” Han agrees, coming up behind them. He greets Chewie. “Hey there, old friend. Thanks for meeting us up here.”

He roars at him and reaches over to ruffle Ben’s hair.

“What? Of course, I’ve been feeding him,” Han protests. “With two kids, they’re pretty much eating me out of house and home, you know.”

Chewie’s reply sounds distinctly unimpressed, even to Armitage’s untrained ear.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You can cook whatever you want for him,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. He turns to Armitage. “Wookiees. They’ll spoil your children. What do you say we let these two catch up and go pick up some supplies, Red?”

That will give Han the opportunity to pay him and send him on his way, he understands. He takes a final look at Ben, who’s in the middle of continuing that involved story in Shyriiwook, full of dramatic hand gestures. Something to do with their recent daring escape, he gathers. “Sure,” Armitage says.

“Good kid.”

They’ve retrieved the handcart and are making their way into the station proper when Ben jogs up to them, breathless. He shoots his father an inscrutable look. “Hey,” he says to Armitage. He’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Um. Right. So. If you—will you—just don’t—without—“

“ _Stars_ ,” Han interrupts, impatient, managing to make it sound like a much harsher curse. “We’re going to get supplies, not leaving for the wars, Ben. I’ll bring him back, I promise.”

He scowls at him, although his expression softens when he addresses Armitage again. “Will you? Be back I mean,” he asks. Tentative. Brows furrowed. _Worried._

Oh. “I’ll—“ he swallows. Aware of Han’s scrutiny, as well as Ben’s desire for reassurance. “Yes. I’ll come back and. Say goodbye.”

It would be easier not to, of course, and even so, he can see this isn’t actually the answer Ben wants. But he nods, accepting it. “Okay, um. Right. Good.” He doesn’t move to leave, though, just stands there.

“We’re going now,” Han informs him.

Armitage follows him out into the station, chancing only a glance or two back at Ben, unable to shake the pull of those plaintive eyes. It’s only when they step out into the throng of people that he’s able to shift his attention, and then mostly out of necessity. He barely dodges a Trandoshan’s scaly elbow to the sternum as they weave down the main concourse.

Nori is not unlike most stations of its era; once pristine and shining, all new durasteel, it’s now settled into a piecemeal middle age, parts of replaced and repaired as necessary, patches of new panels here and there among the rust. Parallel lines of shops border the promenade, interspersed with pop-up stalls set up just about wherever they’ll fit and some places they don’t, all of them hawking every possible ware. There’s the smell of fuel and frying food and burnt caf and also just of bodies, the crush of sentients overwhelming, even for someone who has spent his whole life on crowded ships as Armitage has.

Despite this, he doesn’t lose Han in the press of it all, in part because he’s focusing particularly on the back of his head and in part because Captain Solo has a way of walking that requires others to move around him. He’s not large enough to create a path through the multitude, isn’t especially tall, but he _manages_ the way others pass him in a way Armitage can’t quite discern, maneuvering the handcart easily behind him. He follows in his wake, almost on his heels, before the sentients surrounding them can shove back in and separate them.

“We’ll order the dry goods, then I thought you could pick out some new duds if you want them,” Han says, once they’ve cleared the worst of the congestion.

Armitage blinks. He hadn’t expected anything but the agreed-upon fee for the work he’s done and maybe a polite handshake. “That’s—“ _Unnecessary_ , he wants to say. “—kind of you. Although these are fine, sir.” He’s wearing another t-shirt, from a shipment Han hadn’t been able to deliver, emblazoned with green and gold in a language he can’t read, and a navy mechanic’s jumpsuit tied at the waist.

“You should at least have a better pair of boots, kid,” Han tells him. Gruff, in that way he has. “And don’t call me 'sir.'” Not annoyed, not genuinely. It’s become a sort of refrain with them.

His boots are all he kept of his uniform. And, fair, they aren’t very well suited to this life. He’d have a week of sanitation duties just for the way he’s treated them lately. How scuffed they are now. “Thank you.”

True to form, he shrugs. After two weeks in Han’s company, Armitage understands this has a range of meaning, although here it’s certainly: _don’t mention it, kid. No, really, please don’t mention it_.

He had had teachers and officers, not many, who would parcel out benevolent acts as they could, although it was never much—a cup of water during drills or a packet of bacta after an especially bad whipping or the rare word of encouragement following a successful examination. They likewise never wanted those mercies acknowledged, although perhaps for different reasons. 

They’re almost to the merchant who sells bulk foodstuffs when Han stops and takes his elbow, steering him towards the wall. “Station security,” he explains in an undertone, nodding at a large near-humanoid in a black uniform, baton in hand. “Company goons.” The guard is prodding a small, elderly Bardottan in the back, forcing her out of the stream of traffic. She stumbles and he shouts at her, dragging her upright while she pleads in her language. 

Armitage’s skin prickles at the sight of the uniform. He knows they’re not the same, but it’s close enough, especially with the cap pulled low over the man’s eyes. 

 _Get in line, you useless little cunt._ He can feel the blow, the cuff to his ear. The chemical taste of boot polish. A burst of pain under his eye. He shakes his head, kicking away the memory. 

“Okay,” Han says, once the guard has passed them by. They continue.

It’s possible he’s just being cautious, that he avoids station security as a matter of professional habit, or he’s looking out for Armitage, who is, as far as he knows, a fugitive of some kind. 

 _Or_ there’s some illegal business involved in their stop here.

Not that it’s his concern, he reminds himself. He’s leaving today. But Ben will be angry again. He often is where his father is concerned and is quick to express it to Han, although he’s also affectionate, as he seems to be generally. They go from bickering to laughing in minutes, and he hasn’t been able to predict how they’ll respond to one another. 

Then, Armitage doesn’t know what it’s like to have a father who calls him anything but _cadet_ , who jokes with him, or pats him on the back. Doesn’t know what it means to have a father with whom he can  _argue_  and not cringe, expecting a slap. Who would ask him for forgiveness when he disappointed him, as though that _mattered_. He knows Ben doesn’t understand this, can’t really appreciate it, and he isn’t sure he could explain it to him. But it’s been confusing, watching them these past few weeks. 

“You prefer tea, right?” Han asks, startling him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

His expression is patient. “I got the impression you don’t really like caf. So. Tea?” 

It takes Armitage a moment to realize what he’s saying. He stares at Han.

“Chewie doesn’t really care for caf either,” he tells him. “Makes a brew from some bark he brings back from Kashyyyk. But I don’t know if you’d like it. Tastes like boiled dirt to me.”

His mouth works. “Are you—“

“I don’t think there’s many people who could have managed that jump to hyperspace yesterday,” Han says. “The _Falcon_ doesn’t take to everybody, but she sure as hells has taken to you, Red.”

“But I. You—“ He gestures. Helpless. Unable to force more words past the lump in his throat.

Han pats his arm. Gently. He’s been careful not to touch Armitage much, in stark contrast to Ben, and when he has, it’s been brief, light. Although he did muss his hair once. “You don’t have to answer right away. We’ll be here a couple cycles. You can think about it. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that Ben would be happier than a tauntaun in slush if you stuck around. But it’s up to you.”

“I will,” Armitage warbles. Still shocked. “I mean, I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Han says. Easy. “So we’ll order some tea. Just in case.”

 

* * *

 

Armitage is waiting outside the clothes’ merchants shop. He picked out a pair of boots, as well as some shirts and trousers, at Han’s insistence. Helped him choose some new things for Ben, too, and guess the fit. Han went to pay and, as he suspected, negotiate something else in a back room, a knowing look passing between him and the clerk.

It isn’t much of a surprise, maybe, how much smuggling seems to deal with mundane goods. Before, he would have thought a smuggler would mostly transport spice or weapons, and it sounds like there’s been a fair amount of both aboard the _Millennium Falcon_ in the past, according to Ben’s rants. But there’s also been perfume. Jewelry.  T-shirts. Some sort of pickled slug, a delicacy on Naboo. The only requirement seems to be someone want to sell it and someone else want to buy it, preferably without tariffs or inspections.

But then, at the Academy, most of what they’d snuck were basic comforts, too. Sweets. Once, a truly terrible bottle of Mandaloran white. Even the touching, caresses, and other moments stolen between cadets. Nothing remarkable, save for the fact they were denied them.

“You there,” a low voice snarls. 

He turns, feeling the guard’s approach well before he arrives, but he doesn’t have time to run before he grabs his arm; one meaty hand closes hard around his bicep. It may or may not be the same man from earlier, but he’s wearing an identical uniform, black gaberwool and high boots, his cap tipped over his forehead. Seeing it, Armitage thinks, absurdly, hysterically, that it’s not up to regulation. _You’re not supposed to wear your hat at an angle. It sits squarely on your head._ The tunic is overly tight, too: buttons straining over his thick chest and a popped seam in the shoulder. He reeks of stale sweat, alcohol, and tabac.

 _Not clean either_. _That’d be a week on extra patrols_. Armitage hopes to stars he keeps the disdain off his face. Suspects he doesn’t quite succeed. _Haughty_ is his default expression, particularly when he’s frightened.

Ben had called him rude. It’s not inaccurate.

“What are you doing loitering here, boy?” the guard demands.

It’s only a passing resemblance—his hair is brown, not red, eyes gray, not blue, build stockier—but there’s something of the Commandant in the man’s face. Maybe just mean in the same way.

Armitage straightens. “I’m not loitering, sir,” he responds in his best cadet’s voice. “I’m waiting.“

“You’re casing the place, aren’t you? I know a shifty little thief when I see one.”

“No, I—“

“No back talk!” And too familiar, that. _Don’t interrupt me, cadet._

“I wasn’t—“

“Where’s your identification?”

“I, uh. “ He doesn’t have any, of course. None of them ever did. They _had_ no identities, outside of the Academy. Were nothing. No one.

The man shakes him when he doesn’t respond. Rattling his teeth.

“Sorry, sir! I forgot it. It’s back on the ship. I can—go and get it?”

“Bantha shit. I could recognize your type a mile off. Ship-jumpers and the like. You’re coming with me.” He moves to haul Armitage along then, dragging him by his arm.

He looks around, panicked, for Han, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Wait, please. I’m not—“ He struggles against the man’s grip.

The backhand crashes into the side of his head, the man’s knuckles catching his temple, and he stumbles. Tastes blood where he’s bitten the inside of his cheek.

It’s just a passing resemblance, but he and the Commandant certainly hit the same way. He draws a steadying breath through his nose.

There had been a boy, two or three years older than him, when he was thirteen, who had thought to earn some easy social capital by pushing him around. They were all the same, in most respects, but everyone knew who his father was. Few of them knew what it really meant. Regardless, this other cadet had taken every opportunity—tripped him in line at the mess, pushed him into the wall, cornered him once or twice in the ‘fresher. 

That boy had had about a hundred pounds on him. Was taller, too, the way this man is taller. Clear advantages. The trick, Armitage knows, is to use that momentum against them, let gravity do the work he can’t. He twists in the guard’s hold, abandoning all pretense of docility, spitting at him, and when the man swings to hit him again, he moves, just enough, sending him off balance.

He lands the first punch in his belly. Cracks his knuckles, splitting the skin, on his jaw with the second.

He hadn’t just beaten the older cadet the way he is this man. He’s dimly aware of knocking him to the ground, working almost entirely on muscle memory now. It wouldn’t have been enough just to best him, to leave him bruised and bleeding and humiliated. That wasn’t how they did things at the Academy. Wasn’t what the Commandant wanted from them.

The knife, filched from the kitchens, had sunk easily between his ribs in the end.

The guard makes a wet sound. Spits out what may be a tooth.

No one had targeted him after that, but the fights kept happening, every month or so, most of the cadets eager to prove themselves. His turn came around again. Once. And then twice. It got easier. He could see their weaknesses, predict what they would do. It was about winning. That was all.

The fourth time, just under a month ago, he found himself facing Rajun. Rajun, with his dark eyes and his glasses, who had never fought anyone, who had avoided it. Who let Armitage crawl into his bunk like they were children. Who had kissed him.

He had been so still in the medbay.

The man who looks a little like Brendol Hux takes advantage of his momentary distraction and almost bucks Armitage off of him. Gets in a couple hits to his face. His lip and cheek throb.

He had known where to stick the knife where it would bleed but not puncture. Had known, too, that it wouldn’t be enough. He would be expected to finish it, and there would be consequences if he failed. He wouldn’t have a choice; he would have to. The Commandant would—

Armitage breaks the man’s nose. Isn’t sure what happens after that. Is scarcely aware of how wet his face is. Thinks he hears someone yelling, crying. He realizes belatedly that it’s him.

He’s not sure how long he’ll keep going like this, is weakly punching the man’s chest when there are strong hands pulling at him, then lifting him up and off like it’s nothing, a sure grip around his middle. “Okay, okay,” Han Solo is saying, as he struggles. “Okay, Red. That’s enough.”

He goes almost limp, lets himself be pulled away. “ _Kriff_ ,” Han’s saying. To the guard. “I’d tell you to pick on someone your own size, but—well. Damn.”

He half sees the crowd that’s gathered around them; Han is maneuvering him away quickly, out onto the concourse, but they’re getting stares there, too. Eventually, he steers Armitage down a maintenance corridor, narrow, partially obscured by steam and detritus.

“Hey,” Han says. He tilts his chin up, hands rough but careful, to get a better look at his face, his eyes. “You with me, kid? Remember where you are?”

“Nori. Nori Station,” Armitage mumbles. 

“Good, that’s good. Now, how many fingers?”

“Three?”

“And my name?”

“Han Solo.”

“Right. Good. You’re gonna be okay, Red. Hells. You did a number on that guy.” He sounds impressed. “Remind me never to piss you off, huh.”

The magnitude of what’s happened, of what Han _saw_ , slams into him all at once, forcing the air from his lungs. He crumples under the weight of it, that and everything, weeks of fear and uncertainty catching up with him, too, everything since he ran, and he sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and squeezing. If he could just make himself smaller, maybe that would help. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

There’s a staccato pat on his shoulder. Tentative. Han’s hunkered down next to him. “Sure, it was a little conspicuous, but we’ll get you back to the ship and you can lay low for a while.” 

“No, I— You don’t know. I. Fuck.” He grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes. “You don’t know,” he repeats. Slowly. “What I’ve done.”

“That’s true,” Han acknowledges. “If you want to tell me, you can. But maybe later? And—preferably on the _Falcon_.” He’s casting worried looks out into the station. There might be shouting in the distance. He can’t tell. "We should get moving before someone comes asking questions, if you can."

“Right,” Armitage says. Wiping at his tears. “I’ll hide for a while and then I’ll go—“ 

Because there’s no way they’ll want him _now_. And if Ben knew. 

“Go?” Han’s frowning at him, maybe seeing some of this in his face. “Offer still stands, Red. And it’s probably better if you come with us, all things considered. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

It’s hard not to gape. “You can’t possibly—“

“Why not?”

“ _You saw what I just did_ ,” Armitage whispers, mostly in an effort not to shout it. Panic is starting to bubble up in his chest.

"I've seen a fistfight before, son. Started a few myself."

"That's not all it was."

Han shakes his head. “What was it? You going to attack me, Red? Or Chewie? Ben?”

_Hurt Ben?_

“See, the look on your face right now is all I need to know. I’ve seen a lot of people hurt people in this galaxy, kid. You can always tell when someone does it for the fun of it.” 

“But I—“

“We’ll handle it, whatever it is.” He straightens. “Now. Are you good?”

Armitage considers this, then nods. Accepts the hand up. He winces when he catches sight of the blood splattered on him, then groans.

“What? Feeling dizzy?”

“No, I just. I liked this shirt,” he explains. 

It’s the first thing he’s worn that he knows never belonged to someone else, every uniform he’d ever been issued patched and reused and given to the next cadet when he outgrew it.

Han laughs and tousles his hair. “Well, good news. I’ve got about two hundred more where that came from.” He checks the promenade again, confirming that the coast is clear. Just before they step out, he adds, “And kid? I’m sorry. For leaving you there. Shouldn’t have done that.”

"I—it's fine."

 

* * *

 

“Okay,” Han says. He sets a mug in front of Armitage. It’s just blue milk, not caf, but it steams gently. “You drink that and we’ll get you patched up.” 

They’d made it back to the _Falcon_ without much difficulty, Han’s jacket draped around him, hiding the worst of the mess. Ben and Chewie had been absent, too, when they returned; they left a note about delivering the cargo and getting lunch.

He’d been relieved, not ready to have that conversation yet. He isn’t convinced he shouldn’t just hop the next ship out of here and never have to see Ben's disappointment in him.

He takes a sip of the milk and hisses when it touches his split lip.

“Stings, huh?” Han asks. Sympathetic. “Let me put some bacta on that.”

He does so with the practiced ease of someone who’s applied a lot of bacta in his day. Dabs, too, at Armitage’s cheek and bloody knuckles with a sanicloth, which also burns, but he bears it.

“Ben used to get into fights all the time when he was little. The other kids didn’t really understand him, you know? And he’s always been impatient. Couldn’t tell you where he gets that from.” He winks at this last. Smooths two plasters over the cut on Armitage’s cheek. “Anyway, I did a lot of cleaning up in those days, too.”

“Captain Solo, I should explain—“

“Now don’t tell me we’re back to ‘Captain Solo,’” Han remonstrates him. “Drink your milk.”

He nods, satisfied, when Armitage complies, then rises to put away the medkit. Returns with a stack of faded playing cards, a handful of chips, and a pair of dice. “You know what this is?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s a sabacc set. You ever play? No? Well, I’m going to teach you Corellian Spike.”

Han deals them both two cards, and sets about describing the rules and the objective to assemble a hand equal to zero, or as close to it and with as many cards as possible. Betting. The shift phase. “We don’t have a real sabacc table, but you can put interference tabs on your cards to keep ‘em steady.”

Armitage picks up one of these and examines it: a small, tapered clip that sits on the edge of the card, almost indiscernible. “I imagine these aren’t regulation,” he says.

He laughs. “Do me a favor and stay out of law enforcement, Red.”

After they’ve worked through the mechanics a time or two, Han deals them a proper hand, and they begin to play in earnest. As he drops his first bet onto the table, he explains, “The thing is, when you’re playing sabacc, you’re not really playing the cards or the dice. Sure, you want a good hand. But more than that you’re playing the other people at the table. Using what you know about them to understand what they’re going to do and what it means.” He makes a noncommittal noise when Armitage matches his bet. Draws a card from the deck, considers it, then discards it. Offers him the chance to draw, then rolls the dice.

“Like Dejarik, then.”

Han rolls the dice. “Kind of. More variables involved. Dejarik’s the same every time. Sabacc changes on you. You don’t know what cards you’re going to get, or whether they’ll stay that way.” 

Once they’ve addressed the roll, he continues, “So really, you want to think about what you know about me, what sort of person I am. You know me a bit. You know my kid. You know my ship. Probably, you can guess what I’m going to do with a good hand, a bad hand.” He tosses a few more chips into the middle of the table. “Playing with strangers, of course, you have to make snap judgments. Guesses.”

Armitage reviews his cards. They’re low, but they could be lower. He calls again.

“As for you, Red, I know some, but I’m also guessing. I know you’re handy with machines. Probably book-smart, too. You figure out what Ben’s going to do in Dejarik five or six moves before he does it, so you think ahead. Somehow, though, you ended up on Kadesh Prime with no money and no idea where to go. Kid like you doesn’t do that without good reason.”

It is, he understands, an invitation to talk. An opening. They both draw. Han rolls the dice. They discard their cards, draw new ones.

He thinks again about standing outside the medbay, watching Rajun, very still as he was, and knowing what his father wanted him to do. The Commandant had summoned him, just to make sure it was clear.  _Regrettable you didn’t finish what you started,_ he'd said. _I trust you will see it through_. The cold, hard promise in his eyes. And it hadn’t been, even, that he cared so much for Rajun, whatever arrangement they might have in the bunks. It was knowing it would happen again, keep happening. And that if it had been him lying there in that bed, it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone.

 _The glory of the new Empire_ , they chanted in unison every morning. _The rise of a new Order_. The insignia carved into his arm. 

 _What glory_ , he’d thought, feeling dull. Numb. _For what_. 

He isn't sure when he starts talking, starts recounting when he knew what they were supposed to be, what they were supposed to do to each other, and how it would mold them into better soldiers. Leaders. The suspicion of one another. The competition. The undermining. And the fights. 

The game continues as he speaks. He wins a hand, loses another. Barely notices. Han doesn’t talk, except to say, “raise,” “call,” or “fold,” as is necessary. His expression betrays little, a gambler’s face, Armitage understands now, and that makes it easier to keep going, not receiving a reaction as he empties the past ten years onto the table with the chips and cards. He’s surprised when they come to the end of the third game, the last dice roll thrown, and finds he has a hand of six equaling zero. 

“Not bad, Red. We'll make a cardshark of you yet,” Han says softly and pushes the chips over. He doesn’t move to deal a new round, is instead admiring his last hand, thoughtful. “You tell Ben any of this?” he asks finally.

Armitage shakes his head. “Not really. I think he’s seen some of it, you know.” He gestures vaguely. “With the Force.”

“Probably,” he acknowledges. “It’s not always—private. Being around that. But he’s a good kid. He tries.”

He stares at him, stunned, and laughs, although it’s more of a croak. “I think he’s the best person I’ve ever met.” Remembering, now, his face this morning. The worry and the hope there. His hand on his cheek.

Han’s expression softens at that. “Me too. But then again, I’m biased.” He rotates one die between his fingers. “So you’re scared, huh. That he’ll look at you different.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, true as it is. Only studies the table. Nods.

“I can understand that. But Red, you have to know he thinks worlds of you.”

And Armitage does, to an extent. “He thinks he knows what was done _to_ me,” he explains. Hoarse. “He doesn’t know what I did.”

Han shrugs. “You want my advice, you give him a chance. I think he’ll surprise you. But it’s up to you. Your story to tell—if you want.”

It’s another beat before he hears what he’s trying to say: that this has been in confidence. Surprise ripples through him, catching him off guard. He had thought. But. It feels something like earlier when Han offered him the opportunity to stay. This time, though, the gratitude snags behind his teeth, heavy, not even a _thank you_ escaping. His eyes smart. 

Whatever he might say when he can speak again is interrupted by Ben’s arrival. “What the hells happened?” he’s demanding, coming into the lounge, looking from Armitage’s face to his father’s. “Dad. There are uniformed goons all over the place, asking about a kid with red hair. What’s going on?” Betrayal and hurt already in his voice.  

“Benny! Was just showing Red here how to play sabacc. Small mishap earlier, but no real harm done. We should see about fuel, though, and probably head out early. Play a hand for me?” Han says. Voice bright. Casual. “Chewie outside?” He stands to leave, giving them both a sober look before going. 

Ben glares after him, wary, before he goes to Armitage, cradling his face, thumb tracing under his lip, forefinger gently probing his cheek, which is still swollen. “Kriff, that looks like it hurts,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay now,” Armitage assures him. Covering that careful hand with his own, halting his examination. “Had a run-in with station security.”

He swears again. “I knew it. Another shady deal and you—“

“It wasn’t his fault. Just the wrong place at the wrong time.” For both of them in the end, he thinks, somewhat wryly. Recalling the man’s surprise at that first punch. “You should see the other guy,” he tries for a laugh. But it sounds feeble, even to him, and he finds he doesn’t really want to joke about it. 

Ben clearly remains skeptical, expressive mouth twisted, but he allows Armitage to coax him into the booth next to him. Seems less like he’s going to go stomping after Han and start another argument. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Your father patched me up,” he says. Pauses. “He said he used to do the same thing for you.”

His scowl eases, even as he flushes. Embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I used to get into fights.”

“Me too.”  _Until very recently_.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a moment, not looking at each other. 

“So you’re—“ Ben starts.

“Staying on the _Falcon_ ,” Armitage finishes. “Yeah, seems like it.” It’s not just the circumstances either. He wants to, has wanted to since that first night.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly. Still avoiding his eyes. “Not for—“ He gestures at his face. “But. That you’re staying.”

“So am I. I like it here.” He studies Ben’s face. It’s unusual, his features distinctive, tan skin dotted here and there with moles. A prominent nose and, under it, a wide mouth, currently turned down at the corners. Dark lashes brushing his cheek. It’s the face of someone who would help a stranger in the middle of the night, only seeing that he was frightened and tired and hungry. That concern is there now, too. Like Armitage is someone delicate. Worthy of protection. Care.

Ben looks up, meeting his gaze. Smiles slightly. Almost shyly. “So, sabacc, huh?" he asks. "Did you want to play another hand?” 

Armitage shakes his head. “Not just now. Only, can we—” He frowns and considers the way they’re sitting, shoulder to shoulder, then shifts, arranging himself perpendicularly on the bench, legs stretched out long, his back pressed up against Ben’s side. Feels him tense and then settle, accepting this configuration. He sighs when Ben curls one arm around him, hand resting, lax, over his chest. He tangles their fingers together, draws the back of his hand up to his bruised lips for a kiss. A tremor runs through him. Or perhaps it runs through both of them. “Yes. There. Thanks.”

“Better this way?” Ben asks. Curious.

“It is,” he agrees. Thinking of how he curled up behind him that first night. It’d been true, of course, that that’s how they slept in the dormitories to keep warm. But it had also never really been like that. _Safe_. They’d been able to talk that way, in the dark, his nose in Ben’s hair. He rubs his shoulder with his free hand, where the symbol of the Order still sits in his skin. Maybe indelible. “I should—I want to stay. But there are things I need to tell you first. And I think it'll be easier like this,” he explains. 

It’s not the unburdening of before, how he’d felt emptier, lighter. 

It’s more like he’s showing his hand at the end of the game, card by card, revealing everything that he’s been holding, although he can't say how it will all add up once he’s done, if it will be enough or too much. He can’t see Ben’s face as he talks, can’t read his reactions or see his tells, as Han called them, the twitches and tics that would give away what he’s thinking. Nonetheless, the arm around him stays steady, hugging him tighter at the worst moments, not letting go or pushing him away. And in the end, that’s all he needs to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Will Ben and Armitage ever kiss? Is this ever going to get any happier? Maybe next time!
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3
> 
> ([tumblr](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com))


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